December 8th, 1940
by Taxie
Summary: A day that didn't live in infamy. The development of Lend-Lease, and sex. Historical premises involved and fully exploited. US/UK. Enjoy. Companion to "The Anglo-American Loan."


December 8th, 1940 was a cold day in Western Massachusetts, and America's attention couldn't stay put. The fire in the grate wouldn't stop cracking; the snow-caked wind wouldn't stop howling like a demon; the 'e' key wouldn't stop getting wedged in the upright position on his typewriter.

"Damn thing," he muttered, pulling out yet another sheet of paper where the letter e dragged along the length, pulling night-dark ink across the surface like a trail of blood might follow a dead body when moved.

As America stared down at the line of ink, he inhaled and felt the phantom burn of mustard gas through his nostrils; the Great War was past, of course, but there were certain memories that just wouldn't shake themselves. The feeling of a bayonet as it pushed through flesh and pinned a body in the wrong uniform to the mud-soaked trench like a beetle to a card, for instance.

The fire popped and the log fell onto the hearth, causing America to _jump_ in his seat and exhale heavily, levered from his reverie. His eyes lifted to the window: a predictable wintery scene greeted him. The never-ceasing wind carved snow into abstract art; the Berkshires stood solidly in the background, keeping their eternal watch over the Pioneer Valley. A green car rumbled down the road. Lights were flicking on in windows in neighboring houses to beat away the impending night.

America stared at the car for a long moment before rising to take care of the log. The setting sun cast long shadows against the rug; once America had rolled the log back into the hearth, he went to reach for the light switch, thinking about dinner.

_Salisbury steak_, he had decided. _Salisbury steak, peas, macaroni and cheese. Wine. Chocolate._

As it would turn out, this would be a dinner menu he would never, ever forget. He reached forward and flicked the lights on.

There was a knock at the door. America blinked.

Opening said door produced the British Empire on his doorstep, standing in the snow with a too-thin brown peacoat with matching trilby and carrying a thin brown suitcase.

He said nothing, and both he and America stared at each other for a while before America cleared his throat.

"I thought you were, uh, busy with Germany," America managed after a moment, when it became clear that England wasn't going to initiate conversation. The wind blew some of the snow inside America's foyer.

"I am," England replied, and America tried to remember the last time he'd seen the other nation. He couldn't. "But I'm not going to be for much longer at the rate I'm going." America fixed him with another blank look, and England took a deep breath and exhaled, causing a plume of fog to erupt from between his lips at the cold. "Might I come in?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," America said, stepping out of the way, trying to collect his thoughts. "And what does that mean?"

England stepped in and put down the slim briefcase, toeing off his Oxfords and shrugging out of the coat, which America took from him. Underneath he wore a conservative blue button up shirt with brown sweater vest and a pressed pair of slacks, and once disrobed he folded his hands together before him. America felt rather underdressed in his dungarees and long-sleeve shirt, but, well, he hadn't been expecting company. "I would rather not discuss this with you in the parlor," England said evenly.

America wasn't known for reading atmosphere well at the best of times, but it would take an utter idiot to not realize England wasn't making eye contact. "Sure," America said, becoming more bewildered by the moment. He led England into the room he'd been typing in moments before; he moved the typewriter and offered the other nation a seat in the wingback facing the mountains and the fireplace. America, in contrast, was seated across from him, stuck staring at his desk with the jammed typewriter. England sat down, his hands still folded before him.

"I need your help," England finally said, and lifted his gaze to meet America's.

"I _am_ helping you," America replied. Cash-and-carry was no secret, and it was serving to irritate Japan and Germany a bit. America himself thought it was a rather nice piece of work: he would sell armaments to England, so long as England paid in cash and transported it himself. As far as America was concerned it was perfect, as it allowed him to assist with the so-called European Issue _and_ make money in a very removed way.

England took a breath; it hesitated in the older nation's throat before he released it. "Yes, and I'm grateful you found a way to get around the Neutrality Acts," he said carefully. "However…"

It was at this point that America's eyes looked down and noticed that England's hands were shaking, ever-so-minutely. "…England?" he asked, nodding down to the other nation's clasped hands. "What's… what's going on?"

"I'm broke," England finally said, clenching his hands tighter to stop the trembling. "Or very nearly there."

America looked at him, and then raised an eyebrow. "The British Empire is broke?" he asked, voice a little high with incredulity. Yeah, there _had_ been the unpaid loans after the Great War, but _everybody_ had stopped paying on their loans… well, everybody other than Finland, at least. While England had owned America quite a bit of coin by the end of the 'teens, plenty of countries had stopped paying England back as well, so to pursue seemed churlish. While America hadn't expected England to be rolling in dough due to England's switch to wartime production, the British Empire being _broke _was just…

England's mouth had tightened like a drawstring purse at this point, and he reached down for the slim briefcase at his side, pulling it onto his sensible brown-clad lap and flicking the brass latches back. A moment later, a sheaf of paper was being thrust into America's face. "Yes," England responded tightly.

After a moment's pause, America took the paperwork and looked down at the numbers. The silence stretched, unbroken but for the crackling fire.

"If things continue on as they are, I will be stripped to the bone," England continued, forcibly even. "Even assuming best outcome where I deal with the bloody Kraut and his unhinged boss and send that stupid Italian home with his tail between his legs, at this rate I will be so poor I won't have a pot to piss in."

America's lips parted, but all that came out at first was a long exhale. In contrast to earlier, England was now staring him down: his gaunt cheeks, pale skin, and unflinching eyes reminded America momentarily of staring down the barrel of a gun.

"I am not sure how much clearer I can make this," England continued, his voice touched with the barest of quiver. "Soon I will not be able to pay you in cash for your assistance."

The sentence ended, cut short; it didn't take a genius to put together the extrapolated situation. Fighting a war with zero resources, no armaments, and no money was a physical impossibility; obviously, losing to the encroaching Nazi empire would bring England greater worries than not having a pot to store one's piss in. America's eyes finally lifted from the paper.

"Why are you here? You could have sent this in a letter," America said, folding the paperwork of England's destitution in half, looking down that gunbarrel gaze.

"My boss _did_ send a letter to _your_ boss," England responded, that there-but-not-there quaver still present. "I am here to do and say anything necessary for aid in a desperate situation."

There was a pause while America processed this. "So you took a ship across the Atlantic to _beg_ me?" he asked, as brash as ever.

Even England couldn't repress the wince. "Blunt as ever," the older nation mumbled, his gaze shifting off to the side as he sighed. "I don't know what your preferences are in this arena. In Europe, we typically prefer genuflection, but you seem to lack a proper receiving hall for the action so I'm not sure if you'd prefer me to do it in the kitchen or the living room."

Self-deprecation tinged the comment, but America's lip ticked back at the buried black humor. It was something he had come to appreciate England more for, particularly over the Great War. "Spare me," he responded with a raised hand, waving the joking offer (or, at least, America seriously hoped it was joking) off. "Look. My boss is sympathetic. I think you're a self-righteous class-ridden asshole most of the time, but that doesn't mean I want to see you fall into Nazi hands. I'm just not sure what I can reasonably _do_ about this."

England snorted, but didn't respond to the name-calling; America was mildly impressed by his restraint, given that England generally tended to rise to the bait. "I don't know what you can reasonably do about 'this' either, but that's not my problem." He opened his mouth, paused, and sighed, looking over America's shoulder into the glowing embers of the fire. "…forgive me, that was rude." His eyes shifted back into America's. "…Am… Alfred, I'm not going to be able to do this alone. There is no one else but you. It's either you or Germany, at this point, and I'd rather beg you for help than him for leniency."

America was silent for a long period of time; the wind howled, the fire cracked, and the 'e' key was still stuck in an upright position on the typewriter. England, to his credit, kept his eyes solidly on America, even though America was very well-aware those words must have been gut-wrenching to say. Finally, America stood up. "Dinner?" he asked.

England's mouth parted, as if he was going to try and argue an answer out of America… and America was relieved when the older nation merely chuckled. "I thought you'd never offer," was the wry reply. "War may be hell, but rationing is the seventh circle of it."

# # #

England ate heartily at dinner - rationing was indeed taking a toll on his people and a large part of him writhed with resentment that this place was so comparatively _peaceful_, so _untouched_, so _distant_, when his own country was being blown to smithereens and counting wholemeal two-day-old bread slices.

It was hard not to be resentful, so England contented himself with eating five so-called 'Salisbury steaks' along with a mountain of macaroni smothered in a jaw-dropping amount of cheese, peas with a half-stick of butter mixed in, and a bottle of wine. England _did_ spend a lot of his time in the company of his boss so he had the fortune of eating better than his average citizen did on a daily basis, but the unending _want_ from his people took its toll.

Throughout the meal America, amazingly, spoke very little, only to occasionally shoot England askance looks at the sheer amount of food he was devouring. England didn't say anything until the last bit of gravy had been successfully wiped up with a slice of pillow-soft white bread.

America was giving him a bemused look, and England raised an eyebrow in response, daring the other to comment. For once, America didn't; a smile graced his face and traveled up to those clear blue eyes.

"Coffee?" America asked, once it was clear England wasn't going to try and eat the porcelain off the plate. "I don't have your preferred beverage in the house."

England daubed at his mouth with the napkin before setting it next to the plate. "Please," he responded. "With sugar if you have it."

When the boy returned with a whole damn _bowl_ of it, England couldn't decide whether he wanted to eat all of it straight up with a spoon or hit America over the head with it. In the end, he contented himself to five spoonfuls of it and no violence.

America didn't seem to mind his colonization of the sugar bowl, drinking his coffee with a healthy dollop of thick cream. Even though the coffee was _good_, it was hard to concentrate on much of anything with the gnawing sense of _fear_ that was growing within him.

Suffice to say he hadn't been lying about the offer to beg. England was a proud nation, and no matter what came of this he would _continue_ to be… but desperate times called for desperate measures, and even limitless access to sugar and fats couldn't mask the potential bleakness of the future if he couldn't pull this off.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

"How long are you going to keep me in agony for?" he quietly murmured after some time spent in the silence.

America had been looking out the window, seemingly contemplating the snow. When he turned back, that damned golden cowlick stood straight up, staunch as a soldier. Blue eyes magnified by glasses blinked. "I can't drag Congress like a horse to bridle," he pointed out, that trademark nasal accent painting pastoral scenes perfectly.

"But what about _you_?" England asked, trying to figure out a way to get this conversation - and his visit - to its actual _point_ without having to _say_ the point. Knowing America, though, this was going to be a Herculean task; the boy never did take a hint.

"I said I was sympathetic," America replied. Crown and country, those blue eyes just looked so innocent right now, though England knew they weren't.

Deep breath. "Is there anything I can do to… make my desperation _clearer_?" England tried, trying to put _meaning_ into the words and possibly bore a hole into the boy's thick skull with his eyes.

Nope. Mission failed. America now just looked befuddled. England covered his exasperation with a sip of coffee.

"I'm offering you sex," he said flatly, giving up on trying the discreet route. It clearly wasn't going to work, and the boy obviously had no idea how Europe typically operated so using the code words was a waste of time. "Sex, or whatever you'd like to do with me. Groveling if you want it. I'll wash the floors on my hands and knees if you want it. You can put your bloody typewriter on my back and use me as a _desk_ if you want it. _That_ is why I am here and I didn't just send you a letter telling you I don't have any money and am in trouble, thicko."

America didn't seem to respond at first - he looked rather like an engine that wouldn't quite turn over. "You didn't offer this _before_," the younger nation managed after a long minute, waving behind him to indicate the past. "During the Great War, I mean."

England sighed and rubbed a hand along his face. "You didn't have the _Neutrality Acts_ prior to the first war so getting assistance out of you wasn't nearly so difficult," he explained wanly, looking down into his now-empty coffee and sticking a finger in the leftover sugar crystals. Manners be damned at this point. "And then the Lusitania event occurred and no further encouragement was needed." His now-sugary finger went into his mouth. "This time around, it appears to be a different story. Also, the Huns have _planes_ and are bombing the hell out of me."

The coffee cup went on the table. America looked at it for a moment before looking back at England. "So your solution is _prostitution_?" America asked, sounding a bit scandalized. England was beginning to regret exporting the Puritans.

"If it were a viable solution, I'd be generating enough money already to win the war on my own," England replied grimly.

America laughed at that, and shook his head, putting down his own coffee cup. He looked at England. England looked wordlessly back.

Extended silence.

"_Well_?" England asked. Normally you couldn't get the boy to _shut up_-

"Do you _want_ to have sex with me?" America asked, derailing England's thoughts.

This… admittedly, had been a bit of a thought quagmire for England for a while. There was no _doubt_ that America was gorgeous; as a nation, he was vast, diverse, and had enough raw materials to drive any empire wild. As a human… well, strong body, large hands, blue eyes, blond hair. Well-fed and healthy compared to most, particularly over the last few grueling decades. There was _also_ the whole rebelled-colony bit, which made things-

"Just because, I figure that you do _not_ want to scrub my floors, you do _not_ want to grovel at me, and you wouldn't want me to treat you like a piece of furniture," America continued, once more wrecking England's attempted thought train. England looked up, and America's blue eyes looked back. "You'd do it, maybe, but you'd hate it. Would sex be something you'd _want_ to do?"

Well. England looked mutely at the younger for a moment before managing a, "Well, it wouldn't be a terrible fate, no." America merely raised an eyebrow at that, and England _sighed_. "Damn you. _Yes,_ you conceited ass, I would like to have sex with you." He would have seriously preferred that the circumstances weren't what they were, but if wishes were pies he wouldn't be having food supply issues.

That actually got a smile out of America, and England blinked at how brilliant it was. "A straight answer from a limey; saints preserve us." He stood, and motioned England behind him.

England watched him turn from the kitchen table, and followed him out, leaving the dishes to do what they may. England hadn't been in this house before; it was a typical bungalow build, a standalone house that was snug and small. The kitchen lead back into the living room and out to another hallway that featured a pink-tiled bathroom and a single bedroom done comfortably in worn brown. America stopped in front of the bed and removed his glasses, folding them before placing them on the nightstand.

"All right, let's do this, then," America said, clapping his hands together like he was about to deliver a pep talk to a sports team.

England raised his eyebrows at the silence that followed. "…right," he responded, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. "Do you want me to take off my clothes, or…?"

America's face appeared to collapse into incredulity. "Please tell me that is not how you typically start your sexual encounters."

England sighed. "In case you haven't bloody noticed, you're supposed to be calling the shots, here," he reminded the other, droll.

America sighed, a mirror sigh, and sat down on the side of the bed, causing the blankets to rustle and England to look down at him. "I'd like this to at least seem _somewhat_ natural," America said. "I _am_ your ally, you know. While I won't say the idea of dominating the hell out of you doesn't have its appeal, that would be more entertaining if it weren't you doing it for your survival." The boy's lip ticked up. "Let's just try it the normal, mutual way for the first time. It can get more entertaining later."

England looked down at America. America looked back. Finally, England moved to sit next to the boy on the bed. "…all right," he responded quietly, _hoping_ those words were true. After another half-breath of space, his hand reached forward, fingers scraping against the other nation's stubble, and tipped America's head before he leaned in for the kiss.

The kiss started slow - England had to tip his head at a strange angle to dovetail, as America seemed more interested in seeing how England would react than reacting _himself_… and then wide, strong hands stroked down England's thin sides and he _shivered_, feeling warmth sluice through his veins.

In one way, it seemed wrong to even _attempt_ to enjoy this… after all, he was supposed to be prostrating himself, but this was the New World and England figured not much had ever made sense here anyhow. England's hands reached forward and latched around biceps _thick_ with muscle and a low moan broke from his throat.

Oh, the _want_. The strength, the wheat, the barley, the warmth, the _want_. America wasn't the _best_ kisser he'd ever encountered - _that_ award still went to the Frog, God help that poor French bastard, wherever he was - but his mouth was warm, and the rising enthusiasm from the other couldn't be ignored. In response to England's moan, America _hummed_ and England had a fleeting thought that this was probably going to get overwhelming.

…this was England's last thought before that strength tipped him back onto the mussed blankets of the bed and lips started to move down England's jaw, unassailable and with rising determination. England's breath escaped him in a gasp as his hands buried in the other's hair - so soft, those amber waves - and America's hands tugged the sweater vest up. England relinquished his hold on the other's hair to tug off the sweater: as he did so, America's hands made quick work of his button down shirt.

"Eager," England murmured, and then opened his eyes as America seemed to freeze. America was looking down at the mottled bruises that strafed across England's chest and shoulders - the lingering effects of the air raids. "It's not as bad as it looks," England managed, _not_ particularly appreciating the pause in activities, especially for something that should have been _obvious_.

"If you were on _fire_ you'd say that," America murmured in response, but to England's relief he bent down and started to dot kisses along England's collarbone, causing England to shiver and sink his hands back into America's hair.

"I might be," England replied, a touch of gallows humor before almost choking on a sharp exhale - America's tongue ghosted across the tip of England's left nipple. England _shivered_, and felt the sensitive nub of flesh contract, electric pleasure going through his veins. "Oh, yes," he mumbled, mostly to himself, his hair starting to stroke through America's hair and down to the sensitive nape.

"Mmm," America hummed in response, his tongue doing a _delicious_ flickering motion - and where had the boy learned all of this? - against the nipple before moving over to the other, putting his wide hands to good work by rubbing them up and down England's chest, leaving trails of warmth and goosebumps wherever they touched.

Not to be outdone, England released America's hair long enough to reach down and tug meaningfully at America's belt, as the other was still fully-dressed. This was quickly remedied - America pulled away and then _stripped entirely_, leaving England flushed and staring at the suddenly-naked nation in front of him. "No modesty," England retorted, staring at crisp, faded tan lines from summer, muscles cutting through meaty thighs, and an enticing, well-sized cock, starting to rise proud from a golden patch of hair.

America noticed his staring - there was no way not to - and laughed, an amused, musical noise that managed to tear England's eyes away from America's vital regions. "Like what you see?" he asked, trademark cocky grin pulling the corners of his mouth back.

"You've grown since last time I saw it," England replied, reaching a hand forward to beckon the naked vision back toward him. Fortunately, America didn't need much encouragement to blanket him in impossible, overwhelming warmth and flesh and the _smile_. America went _right_ back to teasing his nipples, making England's eyelids flutter with the electric sensation and reach down so that his fingernails could just graze the top of that golden pubic hair triangle. Grown _indeed_.

Not to be daunted, America kissed England's nipple and then arched his back up like a cat, bringing his cock within England's reach. Green eyes met blue as England's hand curled 'roundit, testing the heft in his hand the way he might the pommel of a sword. The hot flesh twitched in England's hand, and England's cool thumb gently massaged under the cockhead, causing America to swear softly and thrust into the hand.

England was quickly finding his pants too confining and shifted so he could reach down and free himself - but was stopped when America's hand intercepted his, pinning it back. England looked down, breath coming shorter now, and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Do you like to suck cock?" America asked, blunt as ever, the question spilling lowly from red lips. England inhaled shakily - really, how was one supposed to even _answer_ that-

"Yes," he heard his voice responding lowly, slowly, eyes affixed to those red lips - a thrill went through him when they broke into a smile.

"I'll be top, you be bottom, then?" America asked with that easy smile, and England wasn't entirely sure what he meant; by the sounds of it, America wanted penetration, which, well, would have been fine, but why ask about-

England blinked when America gently tugged his cock out of England's hand, turned around, and planted his knees on either side of England's head, presenting England with America's now entirely-erect cock and engulfing him with the scent of sweat and musk. Oh. England took a slow breath as he felt the other work down the fly of England's trousers and England _groaned_ as cool air hit his cock.

A pause, and then a _gasp_ as America's hand worked around the base, and then- "God," England whispered as that hot mouth closed over England's cock, and a _wave_ of pleasure arrowed through England's body, causing his eyes to roll into the back of his head.

A few breaths later - a man couldn't be expected to _concentrate_ \- he tipped his head up and felt America's balls connect with his nose. A shaking hand reached out and he tipped his head up to press kisses against the underside of America's cock. This was somewhat of an awkward position to be in, but, he resolved to make the best of it.

Besides, it was difficult to feel chagrined when America was doing _whatever he was doing with his tongue_. England's shaking hand reached out - to hell with it - and gripped at America's fleshy ass since it was _right there_ and _why not_. America _hummed_, sending reverberations through England's body like a shock wave and flexed obligingly. England's mouth filled with saliva and he leaned forward to lave a wet tongue along America's underside, which caused the other nation to _shiver_ pleasantly_._

It was getting harder and harder to concentrate - breathing in produced an intoxicating scent of musk, sweat, and barley, and the constant _suction_ of America's mouth seemed to be splicing England's brain cells.

No matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered by the impending promise of release, the _promise_, the relief, the _idea_ of relief, the future where it was better, the pleasure, the _want_, the pleasure, the-

England couldn't even groan a warning before his vision went electric and his pulse to oceanic overdrive; his release was _hard_ and willingly swallowed by a wet mouth that seemed to have no shame and all the time in the world in addition to an insatiable hunger. England moaned, and winced when the sucking continued and his body shivered with aftershocks.

Too overcome to even continue on America, England slumped back onto the bed and felt America's weight shift - there was a _groan_, and then… hot wetness spurted across England's face, and America's mouth separated from England's cock to release a deep _moan_ of his own as his seed painted England from hairline to bottom lip to neck to chest.

England panted quietly, letting America's sticky release fall upon him - he'd certainly been subject to worse indignities, and he was too tired and euphoric to be arsed at the moment, anyhow. When he next opened his eyes, they were fogged and sticky from semen, and America had righted himself and was staring down at him.

"I didn't think I'd live to see the day," America remarked, indicating England's come-stained face. The island nation sighed.

"Yes, well, have you got a flannel?" he asked, voice mild, reaching up to at least clear his eyes. He could feel America's weight leave the bed and the water in the pink bathroom run. A hand nudged England's, slightly damp and warm - England took the flannel and wiped his face clean, sitting up. He was still wearing his unbuttoned shirt and trousers, but had to shift to tuck his sensitive cock back inside them.

"Good?" America asked, sitting next to him on the bed.

England looked over at the younger, and then nodded. "Yes," he responded, voice quiet. "You?"

America nodded in response. "Yeah," he said.

There was silence for a period, as both looked at each other.

"…are you going to help me?" England asked, floating on endorphins enough to rally for one more attempt at bluntness.

America looked at him, and one side of his lip ticked up. "I'll think of something," he murmured in response.

That night, with America's chest pressed up against him in the bed with the mussed sheets that smelled like sweat and barley and soap, England slept the sleep of the saved and thankful.

# # #

Somewhat unusually, America was the first awake the next morning, but he figured it was because England had been traveling for a while. It took a few minutes to get out of the bed - he had to stop for a moment when England grunted grumpily about the heat source leaving - but he managed to untangle himself and find a bathrobe to wrap himself in.

Last night had been… interesting in many ways, but the biggest issue was _now what_? America ruminated on the problem for a few moments during the walk to the kitchen, where he grabbed his tin of coffee and idly drummed his fingers on it in thought, looking out the window.

His eyes settled absently on an icicle dangling perilously off the spout of a garden hose. It would probably be ruined if not brought in soon, and-

_That's it_, America thought. _That is it_.

Calmly, he put the tin of coffee down on the table, and went into the living room, where he picked up the typewriter. After tapping the first few keys, he cursed when the 'e' stuck again.

Historical Notes (the short, short version):

This is based on an amalgam of Anglo-American relations prior to US entry into WWII. At the onset of WWII, the US refused to allow American companies to sell armaments of any kind to the UK (or to anybody else), on the basis that armaments profits got the US involved in WWI. It was also illegal under the Neutrality Acts, passed during the 1930s. Eventually this was changed to the 'Cash and Carry' policy, where the US _would_ sell the UK (and France) any supplies not considered "implements of war," but only if the buyer could pay cash up front and also transport the armament themselves and only if the President authorized it. Roosevelt was sympathetic to the Allied war effort, and sold both arms (when the final 1939 Neutrality Act allowed it) and commodities like oil to the UK and France, who were the only countries with both the cash and the ships to transport the sold goods.

Despite this, it didn't take long for the UK to be financially dried up and unable to purchase more US armament, as UK production had shifted to wartime needs and GDP had suffered as a result. On December 8th, 1940, UK Prime Minister Winston Churchill sent a letter to Roosevelt explaining the situation. (Some of England's lines in this are taken from this letter.) Lots of Americans at the time believed that the UK was a very wealthy empire and thus could pay for armament and aid. This was not true by the end of 1940, but US officials demanded an audited list of British assets in order to prove that the UK was nearly bankrupt; UK officials found this humiliating.

While the US still did not want to get involved in the war directly, and would not until the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, there was enough interest in keeping the UK afloat that Roosevelt was able to sell Congress on the Lend-Lease act. Essentially, the US would lend armament and other supplies to the UK and the UK wouldn't need to pay for the aid until after the war, and then only if the lent aid were damaged. In Roosevelt's speech to Congress, he likens the idea of Lend-Lease to lending a neighbor your garden hose. Namely, if your neighbor's house is on fire and your garden hose will help to put the fire out, you don't make the neighbor pay you money for the garden hose. Instead, you loan the hose to the neighbor and he either returns the garden hose after use or replaces the garden hose if it gets damaged.

The line about England 'sleeping the sleep of the saved and thankful' is Churchill's reaction to US entry into the war after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, so it's not entirely accurate in timing.

However, this is also a story about nation personifications having sex, so I figure I'm allowed to play fast and loose a bit. Hope you liked.


End file.
